


Resolutions

by daasgrrl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Missing Scene, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 13:21:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daasgrrl/pseuds/daasgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scene from some demented AU version of <i>A Scandal in Belgravia</i>. In the aftermath of the break-in at Baker Street, John pays Mycroft an 'educational' visit. For both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resolutions

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to **evila_elf** for the read-through.
> 
> **alocin42**  ([enigmaticpenguinofdeath](http://enigmaticpenguinofdeath.tumblr.com/)) was recently bemoaning (again) the general lack of dom!John/dark!John + sub!croft, which I saw as a worthwhile challenge. If it turned out a great deal weirder than I intended, you have only John to blame :P

It had been the shameful treatment of Mrs Hudson that finally spurred John into action.

Not Mycroft’s rudeness to her, although that was where it had begun. John was a reasonable man, and despite the unpleasant conclusions he’d drawn from Mycroft’s outburst there was much he was prepared to put up with. However, far less forgivable had been the sight of her huddled and shivering on the couch as Sherlock trained a gun on her attacker. Who was, John had noted with a profound lack of surprise, the same man they’d previously encountered at Irene Adler’s residence. It had been the last straw. A visit to Mycroft Holmes had become firmly in order.

It had been easy enough to arrange; Sherlock had left early for Barts, taking Irene’s phone with him, which left John with a convenient window in his schedule. A quick phone call – _could we talk somewhere in private? I’m worried about him_ – and Mycroft had sent a big black car around to Baker Street without asking too much in the way of difficult questions. John had slipped quietly out of the flat in order to be waiting on the street when it arrived.

Unexpectedly, the car brought him to the entrance of Mycroft’s offices in Whitehall. However, after a cursory ID check from a bored guard, John was left to find his own way past an unmanned reception desk and through the echoing corridors. Apart from an occasional passing glimpse of light through an open door, the building appeared more-or-less deserted. Apparently even the British government took a breather on New Year’s Day. Well, most of it, anyway.

When he finally arrived, Mycroft greeted him civilly enough, coming around from behind his desk to shake John’s hand and offer him tea, or perhaps something a little stronger, which John declined. Despite the empty reception area outside, and the general hush pervading their surroundings, he also made sure to shut the door before taking a seat.

The formalities having all been duly observed, Mycroft came directly to the point. He leaned forward in his armchair, his eyes fixed on John.

“How is he?”

John smiled. “Actually, he’s fine. Well, as much as he can be. I’m guessing you’ve heard about Irene. Being alive again, that is.”

“Yes. Has he had difficulty adjusting?”

“He’s still brooding away, but it’s a different kind of brooding now. Less melancholy. More . . . thoughtful, I’d say.”

“But on the whole . . .”

“He’s fine.”

“I see.” Mycroft’s expression had acquired a faint air of puzzlement. “So you contacted me because . . .”

“Yeah, I might have been lying just a little bit about that,” John said pleasantly. “Obviously, I didn’t actually want to talk to you about Sherlock. This is more in the way of. . . I’d call an educational visit. For both of us. You knew, didn’t you?”

The question earned him a raised eyebrow and an exasperated look.

“That would rather depend on exactly what you are referring to.”

“The day Mrs Hudson told you off for sending Sherlock into danger, and you told her to shut up. That was rude even for you – but she’d struck a nerve, hadn’t she, Mycroft? We both know Sherlock’s always running into some kind of danger; it’s what he does. Why would it bother you so much _this_ time? The only explanation is that you knew. CIA-trained killers, Sherlock said. You knew full well they’d come bursting through Irene’s door while we were there, guns blazing, and you didn’t bother to warn us. That wasn’t very nice, you know. It wasn’t even necessary. Sherlock would have got you your phone.”

“That was completely out of my hands, John. I don’t have any control over the CIA.”

John made an impolite scoffing noise. “Really? That’s not what I’ve heard. For all I know you sent them in yourself. On a freelance basis.”

“Fine. Technically, it was an entirely separate operation on their part. But a little extra manpower on a case never hurt.”

“Meaning that you did know about it, and you could have warned us, and in my eyes that makes you responsible.” John waited for that to sink in before continuing. “But really, that part’s fine. I knew what I was in for, moving in with Sherlock, getting involved in all of this. Mrs Hudson, however, never signed up for any of it. Yesterday, as you’re no doubt already aware – Mr CIA-trained-killer showed up again in our flat. He gave her a bruised wrist and a cut on the cheek, not to mention the fright of her life. Now, Sherlock took care of him well enough, but I happen to think _you_ could also have done a little more to stop it from happening, you know? ‘Do whatever you need to, but don’t go bashing up any seventy-five-year-old women,’ would have been a damn good start.”

Mycroft’s brow furrowed as he frowned at John. “I don’t know how I could possibly have foreseen . . .”

“Maybe, maybe not. But the thing that really winds me up is that you didn’t even try, did you? Because to you, it’s all just pieces on a board. Not real people. Do you have any idea what it was like, that day at Irene’s house? ‘Course you know how it all played out, but it’s not like _being_ there, is it?”

He glared at Mycroft, daring him to interrupt, but Mycroft only inclined his head politely.

“So, after we were ambushed and all the yelling stopped, I ended up on my knees with a gun pressed to the back of my head, and Mr CIA promising to have me shot if Sherlock can’t open the safe. Sherlock’s saying he doesn’t know the combination, that he can’t do it, but he’s just not listening. And when he got up to ‘three’, and Sherlock hesitated just a touch too long . . .you know, I thought that was it. That I was about to die. Not for the first time, of course. But it’s something you never really get used to.” John shook his head, grimacing. “Now, you, Mycroft, I’m sure you know all about playing God with other people’s lives from behind that nice big desk of yours. But it made me wonder – do you have any idea what it feels like when it’s your own?”

“Well, I’ve had a small assortment of death threats, certainly . . .”

“Really not the same thing.”

By way of illustration, John reached under his jacket, drew out his service weapon, and pointed it steadily at Mycroft’s head. It really was remarkable how lax government security could be towards trusted friends and associates, especially over the holiday season. It was an oversight John thought would probably be remedied in the very near future.

“Is that supposed to frighten me, Doctor Watson? We both know you’re not actually about to shoot me.” It was interesting the way Mycroft evidently reverted to formality under stress.

“Sure of that, are you?” John stood up and backed away slightly, to ensure he was out of striking distance. He cocked the hammer, which effectively halved the trigger pull. Mycroft’s expression didn’t change, but he had gone very, very still.

“You realise the only reason I haven’t yet alerted security is to protect you from the subsequent humiliation.”

“No, it’s because your security’s rubbish, and besides, I could kill you ten times over before anyone got here.” Mycroft was most probably bluffing anyway, but John wouldn’t put it past him to be carrying some kind of personal security device. All the more reason not to let him anywhere near it. “Now, get out of that chair, and put your hands behind your head.”

Mycroft obeyed, but his every movement was slow and deliberate, his eyes constantly assessing and reassessing. John’s focus was absolute. He was prepared for any ineffectual attempts Mycroft might make to distract him, but none came. That reputation for intelligence had apparently not come unearned.

John waved him a little further into the centre of the room. “Now kneel.”

“I hardly think . . .”

“Right now I’m not at all interested in what you think. On your knees.”

His voice was calm and quiet, and he didn’t bother with any further dramatics. It would only be a noisy distraction to damage Mycroft’s furnishings with a bullet fired merely for the sake of emphasis, and there was little point in yelling when he knew Mycroft could hear him perfectly well. This was between him and Mycroft, and he had faced down opponents far more terrifying than a minor government official in a three-piece suit.

Perhaps Mycroft really could read his thoughts. John saw his face twist in exasperation – in that moment the family resemblance was unmistakeable – before he dropped in a straight line to the carpet, as though he had simply unhinged the joints in his knees. It was surprisingly graceful, and very satisfying. John smiled at him.

“Very nice. Now sit back a little. Good.”

He circled cautiously around Mycroft, the weapon in his shooting hand, his left outstretched to defend against any sudden movements. However, Mycroft remained frozen in place. John came to a halt behind him, putting the muzzle of his revolver directly against the back of Mycroft’s neck. He pressed it there gently but firmly, pushing Mycroft’s head an inch or two further forward, forcing him to shift his weight to maintain balance. Even through the steel that separated them he could feel the trembling Mycroft was unable to suppress, that metallic chill of contact that spread through your bloodstream like a virus, making the mad thumping of your heart seem to take up the entire world. John knew it well.

“You see?” he said conversationally. “Not much fun at all. It might seem like quite a minor thing when you’re sitting behind a desk pushing your pieces around, but in reality it’s pretty fucking terrifying.”

“Yes, I quite understand,” Mycroft said, sounding slightly out of breath.

“Good boy.” John gave him an affectionate pat on the head, then moved the gun away, heard Mycroft’s long deep exhale of breath.

As Mycroft straightened up, John moved to stand in front of him once more, considering. The adrenaline had done wonders for Mycroft’s complexion; he looked flushed and slightly rattled and thoroughly human. When he sat back on his haunches, the edges of his dark pin-striped jacket just brushed the ground, and his head was at the level of John’s stomach. Since Mycroft had not been allowed the luxury of tugging the fabric of his trousers upwards before kneeling, they were now stretched tightly and uncomfortably around his thighs, concealing nothing. Which made certain new and interesting developments obvious even to someone with John’s limited powers of observation. He shook his head, and blinked. Just to be sure.

“Unbelievable,” he said. He stared at Mycroft, who was keeping his eyes determinedly cast down. At this moment John had to admit that things were somehow not going _quite_ the way he had planned. Having made his point, he had intended to deliver some homily about Trying Harder Next Time, and leave Mycroft to examine his conscience in peace. However, he had apparently completely misjudged Mycroft’s appreciation for danger, not to mention the corresponding effect it was having on him in his own adrenaline-charged state. It was definitely. . . intriguing. He still felt thoroughly annoyed by Mycroft’s behaviour, his arrogance, but that only made the situation all the more appealing.

“Right. Well then,” John said, while his brain raced, his thoughts only managing to make it as far as _this is such a very bad idea_ before inexplicably dissolving into static. “I think you owe me something for putting me through that whole experience, don’t you?”

Mycroft mumbled something that could have been anything.

“Try that again. And look at me this time.”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft said, with something almost approaching humility. John wasn’t entirely sure he believed him, but god, he wanted to.

“I think you can do a little better than that.”

“Yes, John. Please let me make it up to you.”

“If we can agree on that, I don’t really need this any more, do I?” John held up his weapon briefly for their mutual contemplation, then thumbed the safety on before re-holstering it beneath his jacket.

Then he simply stood and waited to see what Mycroft would do. If he were going to summon help, or tell John to piss off, or otherwise put a _stop_ to this, it would be now. John would be the first to admit that his own analytical abilities owed far more to gut instinct than any lightning leaps of intellect, but from the way Mycroft’s tongue flicked out quickly to moisten his lips, it had become something of a rhetorical question by that point. He smiled, the skin feeling stretched hard and tight over his bones. “Then come over here and make yourself useful.”

Given who he was dealing with, he didn’t feel the need to elaborate. He waited patiently as Mycroft shuffled over on his knees, looking to John for approval before he unclasped and lowered his hands from behind his head. In response to John’s nod, he then reached for the button and zip of his trousers, undoing them carefully. John was already half-hard, but felt the pulse echoing through his entire body as Mycroft’s hand touched him. His abandoned chair stood within easy reach, so he pulled it towards himself and sat, spreading his legs apart invitingly.

“Why don’t you show me what you can do with that mouth besides ordering people about.”

There was only the very faint sense of surprise as Mycroft bent over him without hesitation, and then an involuntary groan escaped him as he was enveloped in sudden heat. Not only did Mycroft know exactly what he was doing, he appeared to be employing far more enthusiasm than John might have expected. Not that he could ever have expected anything like this.

“Oh, very nice. Yeah, that’s good,” John said, recovering himself. For several long, delicious minutes he simply sat back and enjoyed the obscene wet noises of Mycroft working up and down his shaft. He’d experienced a great many unusual things during his time with Sherlock, but having the British government before him on its knees in such a literal sense was nothing short of incredible, not to mention intense; once or twice John was forced to twist his fingers into Mycroft's hair and tug slightly, just to remind him that it wasn’t some kind of speed event.

When Mycroft finally paused in his work and raised his head, his lips were red and swollen, and John couldn’t resist dragging him into a kiss. It was both precarious and sloppy, with Mycroft’s knee resting on the edge of the padded seat between his own and his mouth too soft and too wet, his tongue carrying the traces of John’s scent. John reached for the bulge in his trousers, rubbing, just to hear Mycroft moan softly into his mouth. He kept stroking as he turned his head away, leaving Mycroft panting against the side of his neck.

“You know, I’d really like to have you over the edge of that big desk of yours,” John said conversationally. Mycroft made a low, indecipherable sound which he could only take for agreement. “Bare-arsed, trousers around your ankles. Maybe I’d even have to use my hands on your arse for a bit, punish you properly, what do you say?”

“Yes,” Mycroft sighed against him.

“Pity I’ve got so much to do today,” John continued, not sounding in the least regretful. It wasn’t even a lie; Sainsbury’s would still be open today, and he did need a good excuse for having left the flat. “So you’d better just get on with it.”

He sensed rather than heard Mycroft’s outrage, and smiled as he guided Mycroft firmly back down into place. Punishments came in many different forms, after all.

“Might I just say…”

“Nope. And don’t even think about touching yourself.”

If it were possible to suck cock petulantly, Mycroft managed it, but the result was no less effective. If anything, the novelty only contributed to John’s enjoyment. He slouched down in the chair and spread his legs further apart, bringing one hand down to fondle his sac and balls as he began to thrust slowly into Mycroft’s mouth. With the added stimulation, it wasn’t long before he felt his orgasm uncoiling within him.

“I expect you to take it all,” he warned, but Mycroft didn’t hesitate, only took him in deeper. John groaned and came in long, shuddering spurts, feeling the rhythmic contractions of Mycroft’s throat as he swallowed. When it was over, Mycroft seemed almost reluctant to let him go, keeping up a gentle suction until John finally slipped from his mouth. It was all very nice indeed.

He tidied himself away quickly under Mycroft’s gaze, already half-braced for the sting of an acidic remark, or some appropriately withering sarcasm, just to show how much Mycroft had really been in control all along. However, Mycroft only waited until he was done, then shifted a little to rest his cheek against John’s knee, looking surprisingly relaxed and. . . content. It took John a moment to process the expression. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen it on Mycroft’s face before.

Despite himself, it managed to dissipate most of the residual anger he might have harboured. Either he was losing his mind, or Mycroft was manipulative on a scale far beyond anything he’d ever encountered. Possibly both.

“Come here,” he said, drawing Mycroft up just far enough to kiss him properly. It was immediately obvious that Mycroft was still very much aroused, his hard length straining the fabric of his trousers. The dark wool was damp against John’s fingers as John massaged him roughly through the cloth, just to hear him gasp.

“Is there something you’d like, Mycroft?”

“Please,” Mycroft panted.

John considered. There were several tempting options on offer, but he was shagged out and exhausted and quite frankly still didn’t have clear idea what Mycroft thought he was playing at. He only pulled Mycroft a little further up, and slid his thigh roughly between Mycroft’s legs.

“Ride me, then.”

Mycroft looked slightly taken aback, but John pulled him down for another kiss, slipping his free hand under the edge of Mycroft’s jacket to rest against his arse, squeezing tight. “Just like this,” he growled, and felt Mycroft shiver against him before beginning to move. After a little initial hesitation over how best to position himself, he seemed to find the experience more satisfactory than he’d envisaged. John almost regretted having come so soon. He contented itself with slipping his hands under Mycroft’s jacket, his waistcoat, touching him everywhere he could without ever quite managing to lay his hands on bare skin.

“Must be a complicated life, running the country and all,” John commented thoughtfully, as though he were having a pleasant chat over a cup of tea.

There was no response at first; Mycroft appeared fully engaged with grinding himself against John’s hip and thigh, eyes shut, mouth slightly open. However, he rallied magnificently, composing himself enough to articulate, “You’ve no idea.”

“I suppose it’s nice having someone tell you what to do for a change, yeah?”

“Ah,” Mycroft breathed, which wasn’t a particularly informative response, but the accompanying shudder that ran through his body was unmistakeable. He clutched at John tightly, heedless of past or future injuries, while John patted him, not entirely sure just how awkward this was turning out to be. Fortunately, the layers of cloth between them protected John from the worst of the consequences.

John waited a little, until Mycroft had resolved himself into a soft, heavy weight half-sprawled on top of him. He then slid sideways, easing himself out of the chair, letting Mycroft slump down into it instead. He stood and surveyed his handiwork with some satisfaction. Mycroft was still breathing heavily, and his ruffled hair and flushed face made him look thoroughly wrecked, as though he’d taken himself and his three-piece suit on an all-night bender. His jacket and trousers were wrinkled, his tie and tie pin both askew, and his top waistcoat button had come undone. The pocket square, however, had somehow remained perfectly in place. John reached down and tugged at it lightly, just to complete the general effect.

At the contact, Mycroft’s eyes flickered open, clearly evaluating the expression on John’s features before deciding how best to rearrange his own. He settled for a small, rueful smile. A few moments later he had risen from the armchair and begun the process of straightening himself up, with remarkable efficiency. While Mycroft probably wouldn’t want to spend an entire afternoon wearing those trousers, the shadowing effect of the suit jacket meant it would have taken a sharp eye to notice any tell-tale signs of their encounter. When he was done, he still looked slightly flushed, his hair perhaps in need of further combing, but otherwise as outwardly composed as ever. It was perhaps the first time John had ever fully appreciated the sight.

“Right,” John said, as severely as he could manage under the circumstances. “I hope I’ve made myself clear, then.” Granted, he could no longer seem to remember exactly what point he’d been trying to make in the first place.

Mycroft nodded solemnly. “I truly am sorry for what you all went through. Especially Mrs Hudson.”

He sounded sincere enough, but John hadn’t been born yesterday. “Yeah, but you’d do it all again in a heartbeat, wouldn’t you? If you thought it was _necessary_.”

“Of course.” Mycroft paused, then added delicately. “Although I assure you that in the meantime I shall remain duly chastened.”

“Er . . . good.” John shook his head, suddenly at a loss. “Yes, well, right, I’d better be going then.”

However, he stayed a moment longer, trying to work out if a parting gesture might be in order. A handshake, perhaps, or a kiss. Perhaps even an apology of some kind, although John still felt he’d been at least somewhat justified. It was all very confusing.

“John?”

“Hmmm?”

“The gun – it was never actually loaded, was it? That was just . . . for effect.”

John smiled up at him. “What do you think?”

Mycroft scrutinised him for a full half-minute in silence, while John stood there and let him. Finally, Mycroft spoke, frowning. “You really have proven yourself to be quite extraordinary. I hope my brother appreciates you.”

“I s’pose he does. Maybe not in quite the same way _you_ do,” John couldn’t resist adding.

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Mycroft said, giving nothing away. He hesitated. “And is he. . .”

“He’s _fine_ , Mycroft. If he ever really needs help, I’ll be the first to let you know.”

“Thank you, John. I would greatly appreciate it.”

John made it almost to the door before he turned back. “And if there’s ever anything _you_ need.”

Mycroft smiled at him, then, an odd smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and was noticeably lacking in its usual sharpness. Despite his close association with Sherlock, John had never really thought of Mycroft as having had a childhood, or even much of a past; he seemed to have sprung fully-formed into the world, already armoured in a three-piece suit. However, for a moment John thought he’d seen a glimpse of who Mycroft might have been, before. Before he’d thrown himself into an all-consuming career where every word had to be watched, every gesture guarded. Before he’d learned to put a price on caring.

“I’ll let you know,” Mycroft said.

“Right.” John thought of how Mycroft had felt open-mouthed against him, writhing under his hands, and the sheer impossibility of reconciling it with the man now standing calmly before him. It occurred to him that Mycroft was all layers, quite literally. He wondered what he might find if he managed to make it through all of them, if he were ever given the chance. “Well, um, I guess, Happy New Year, then.”

“Perhaps.” Mycroft appeared to hesitate briefly, then moved to close the distance between them. John tilted his head up as Mycroft bent to kiss him, soft and chaste. “I suppose we shall see.”


End file.
